


Burn

by Evandar



Series: Evandar's Fic_Promptly Fills [2]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fallen Angels, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crowley falls from Grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burn

**Author's Note:**

> My first attempt at writing _Good Omens_.

It’s not, strictly speaking, a fall. Nor is it the vaguely downwards saunter that he’d later pretend it was when asked by an angel what it was like. It’s more of a pulling sensation – a sharp yank around his ribs as he thinks to himself _well, he did kind of have a point_.   
  
The angel he was healing cries out, but he doesn’t. He’s too surprised. The only thing that comes to mind as he is dragged between stars and planets is _oh shit_. Then he hits the atmosphere of his Father’s new project at the wrong angle and thought is lost. He screams as his wings burst into flame.  
  
He didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s the one thing he’ll always admit to when asked later: he didn’t want to fall, didn’t mean to, and would have been perfectly happy to spend the rest of his existence in heaven. He’s not Lucifer - he didn't sin; he’s far from Azazel, who carved his own wings off before jumping. He’s just a minor angel of no real importance who let his thoughts run away from him.  
  
He twists in pain, but the tether around his ribs doesn’t let go. If anything, it grows tighter, and all his squirming does is give him a glance of the blue-green world spread open beneath him as it draws rapidly closer.  
  
His last thought as an angel is _it’s beautiful_.  
  
It feels like he hits every rock on his descent into Hell, and he lands in a heap at the bottom of a shaft – on rock rather than flame, and he’d feel grateful if he wasn’t busy feeling hatred for the first time. He tries to stretch a wing forward to survey the damage but he barely so much as twitches it before another wave of agony rips through him. He pulls on his grace as well, and even though it’s as twisted and broken as his wings are, it doesn’t hurt as it responds to him. He uses it to cycle through shapes and forms and settles on one that doesn’t have wings – doesn’t have anything but a smooth, sleek body and a mouth full of venomous fangs – so that he doesn’t have to hurt any more.  
  
Only his eyes stay the same: golden. He won’t realise until mirrors are invented. By that time his wings will have healed and their feathers will have grown back, but he’ll never stop feeling the flames that burned them.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on fic_promptly at Dreamwidth.
> 
> darlingfox's prompt was:  
>  _Good Omens, Crowley, falling_


End file.
